RUTHLESS POACHERS

There is bloodshed in the Congo
as the ruthless poachers
set their traps
to the agony of the jungle lair.

Some collapse and crumble
in the zone of deceptive brush,
camoflagueing deadly traps.

The codeword amongst the Negroid tribesmen
echoes the deafening alarm
of the plummeting beats
on deerskin drums.

The profits from ivory tusks and hides
are great.

The lawmen's argument continues
in fearsome warfare against this atrocity.

The foundlings and their mothers
withstand as specters
to their daily predicament of brutal arrest.

Gorillas are shot down
and are in danger of extinction
for mere trophies and awards.

Their paws, nail and heads
hang on the walls and belts
of men without souls.

A modicum of military guards
patrol the jungle in attempt
to protect
these animals
however, this is not enough.

This inhumane profiteering needs
to halt,
lest there be no more lions,
hippopotamuses, crocodiles, giraffes
and gorillas.



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WORDS USED: Bloodshed Congo ruthless agony
Collapse crumble zone deceptive codeword
Negroid echoes deafen lawmen argument
Continues fearsome warfare modicum
Inhumane halt foundlings withstand specters
Daily predicament brutal arrest

MY FATHER AND I

When I think back about my father,
the shadowy image in my mind’s eye
is always clouded and contorted.

His platinum hair and mustache
with a persona of an archangel,
here to guide me to conservatism,
beyond this earthly plane.

He frightened me with his
Edwardian morals
moreover, I deplored his ideologies
and who he was,
and yet,
I saw him as a demigod
to be emulated.

I tried many times to be the man
he wanted me to be…
attempting to walk in his oversized shoes.
Only I couldn’t - knowing that
somehow, I would loose myself.

At an early age I gravitated towards
the path less trodden.

He, being genteel yet brave,
egocentric and verbose,
a traditionalist and conformist,
walked the path of the sages.

He taught me the rudiments of his trade
with an accent of a language past.
A pontificating scholar of the academy.

And expecting me to be the same.
The only problem – was me.

My mind had wings and soared
to imaginable heights,
to horizons, he had never dared dream.

This was the twentieth century,
the world and “I “ were in a metamorphosis
of change.
Why, I was the world at that time!

I was forever inquisitive
and strove in arduous attempts,
sometimes foolhardy,
to avoid the conformal societal conventions
of his preaching’s.

Which only displeased and
drove him to despair.

My incandescent wit
to outsmart my father
would invariably end
in vicissitudes of his wrath.

Minor arguments would become
tantamount warfare,
he usually the victor.

As I recap on the episodes
of my early years,
I can see my ideologies coalesces
with his.

I believe, a part of my soul,
that of the revolutionist, is lost,
buried somewhere in my psyche,
to be retrieved later.

For I feel, that I am now,
very similar to my father.

A centurion fighting for conservatism;
with relic ideologies of the past.


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Words Used: contorted platinum mustache archangel
Conservatism Edwardian genteel egocentric verbose
Conformist rudiments language pontificating scholar
Academy forever inquisitive strove arduous foolhardy
Conformal societal arguments incandescent warfare
Fearsome relic soul